Curve Against The Sky
by missmelly
Summary: When Edward's life seems adrift, he does what men have done for centuries and heads out to sea. What he finds there changes his life forever. AU Canon pairings. All characters belong to S. Meyer and her publishers.
1. Chapter 1

**Music:** Garnet Rogers _Final Trawl;_ Stan Rogers _Northwest Passage;_ Joanna Newsom _Colleen_; Ani Difranco _Swim_; Elysian Fields _Mermaid_; Tim Buckley _Song to a Siren_; Eliza Carthy _Rows of Angels_; Veda Hille _Sleepers_; Judith Owen _Poseidon_; The Watersons _Greenland Whale Fishery;_ A Fine Frenzy _The Minnow and the Trout;_ Waterson Carthy _The Forsaken Mermaid_; Rachel's_ The Sea and The Bells;_ Kendra Smith_ Bold Marauder._

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**Curve Against the Sky** PROLOGUE

"CARLILSE CULLEN!" I howled at no one in particular. "I swear by all that is holy, if I ever get off this motherfucking boat alive, I will never listen to you again!"

I white-knuckled the rope alongside the wheelhouse as the trawler pitched, and the salt water made my eyes sting and squint. As one gigantic wave after another crashed over the deck, I could just make out Jasper's yellow storm gear as he and Emmett struggled with the outrigger. The skipper had sent us into this water slide from Hell to raise the trawls and swing in the booms, lest the extra drag pull us down aft and turn us turtle in the freezing swell.

As the boat lurched on a sickening angle, I tried to avoid looking at the wall of water not thirty feet port as I let go the rope and hydroplaned across the deck, slamming into the winch. All the air punched out of my lungs on impact, leaving me wheezing and gaping like the flatfish brought up in a typical haul. A backwards gust whipped around the towing blocks, tearing off my hat; I had a quick glimpse of it whirling over the deck before I was blinded by another pummeling wave.

As smoke billowed from the winches, screaming as they wound in the nets against the sucking sea, I pulled myself along hand over hand until I reached the men struggling to ship the outrigger. As I got to them, Jasper grabbed my arm and pointed, yelling above the gale, "The trawl is snagged on the ramp!" and with a jerk, he pulled me aft. I sensed Emmett's immense shadow behind us as we slipped and flailed past Peter and James, who were hanging from the boom like oilskinned monkeys, scrambling to hold it.

The sea was a gray, churning beast bucking us like a tiny bullrider in a vast ocean rodeo. The wind was so cold and the spray so thick, I already had ice in my hair. The driving rain sluiced sideways, dumping down my neck, forcing a yelp out of me as the frigid water ran down inside my overalls.

As we yanked desperately at the unyielding net that threatened to pull us all into the roiling water, I looked in amazement as Jasper wrestled up under his slicker and drew out a filleting knife, which he proceeded to clasp in his teeth like some sort of storm gear-clad Tarzan. I heard Emmett yell, "Whitlock, no!" as Jasper flung himself on top of the net, crawling over it like Dracula scaling a tower wall in an old horror film, before tangling his arm in the footrope and leaning precariously out over the stern.

As waves bashed us and the boat groaned in protest, I was sure we'd lost him headfirst into the surge, when his head popped into view and he shouted, "It's free!" He clambered back along the net as Emmett and I grabbed the headlines, pulling with all our spent might.

Just as I thought I couldn't hold on, my frozen fingers slipping along the rope—even through my sodden gloves, I was certain I'd need stitches—I heard Emmett bellow with his effort, and with a massive heave of popping muscle and exhausted bone, we hauled the trawl up the ramp and fell on top of it.

As I lay, soaked through and gasping, I was aware of an eerie moment of calm. Into it, I heard Jasper pant, "Shit, I lost my best knife."

Then Emmett cried, "There's someone in the net!"


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's note: w****hat's this? you say, amazed: a new story from miss melly? Whatever happened to the old one?**

**Excellent question. I still intend to finish Waiting To Be Whole; however, I started Curve Against The Sky before my darling husband died, and it has been calling to me recently. I am hoping that by answering its quite literal "siren call," I can demolish the writer's block that has plagued me this ten months, as I nursed my husband through his final illness. If I start writing something again—anything—maybe I can get my sea legs under me enough to return to W2BW...**

**In the meantime, I hope I won't anger you, my most faithful readers, too much by embarking on a whole new venture. Let's let the wind fill our sails and see where it takes us, yar?**

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**Chapter 1**

I took the broad stone steps two at a time, barely able to contain my nervous excitement. When my step-father had suggested I talk to his classmate Aaron Voltura before I threw in the towel on my medical studies, I was skeptical to the point of downright disbelief.

"With all due respect, Carlisle, I don't see what good it will do."

"I know how frustrated you are, Edward. I just don't want to see you give up on all your years of study to pursue this new course without investigating further."

"I _have_ been investigating," I huffed, completely exasperated. I loved the man, but he could still treat me like a child sometimes. "I'm not giving everything up. I'm just shifting my focus."

Carlisle sighed that _what am I going to do with you?_ sigh that he usually reserved for my sister Alice and all her hare-brained schemes. "Edward. I know you are tired and disheartened—you look like you haven't slept well for months," and he cast a glance at my unruly hair. He stepped forward and rested his hand on my shoulder. "At least talk to him? Please?"

I pinched the bridge of my nose in irritation, before returning his sigh tenfold. "Okay, I will. What's he do again?"

Carlisle's tone was professorial, "He is the senior curator of marine biology at the Field Museum, and he's researching the negative effects of benthic trawling on ocean bottom ecosystems." His voice softened, "He's a good friend. And it was his brother who arranged the field trip your comparative anatomy class took—between the two of them, they have pretty much cornered the market on marine sciences in this entire part of the country."

He was referring to the event that had blown this whole thing wide open for me. My fourth year in medical school, and I was struggling. Not with the workload. With the whole idea of becoming a doctor. Carlisle was a trauma specialist, one of the best—it was just assumed I'd be following in his footsteps. But just as I was about to start my residency program, I'd gone cold on the whole shebang. Nothing about trauma surgery grabbed me. Yes, I appreciated the idea of saving lives in challenging, unusual, even unprecedented situations. But the closer I got, the more it felt like I was walking in two left shoes. Awkward. Clumsy. A bad fit.

Then, as I was coasting through a comparative anatomy course, hoping to pick up some more specialized knowledge about human injuries caused by animal attacks, the class went to the Shedd Aquarium for an unusual opportunity. Professor Banner had arranged for us to participate in dissecting a seal, a sea lion, and a manatee.

Maybe it was growing up so far from the ocean and rarely seeing a beach. Maybe it was my childhood fixation with pirates and Alice's refusal to play a scurvy bilge rat to my Captain Kidd—which seemed to fuel her utter fascination with Captain Jack Sparrow and months of glopping on black eyeshadow—or maybe it was my brief flirtation with the stage, first playing Ariel's prince in my high school production of _The Little Mermaid_ or my college role as Caliban in _The Tempest. _I had been drawn to the sea, its creatures, and particularly its myths for as long as I could remember.

And the Shedd was my favorite place to visit whenever our mother bestowed one of her "days on the town," which usually meant a visit to some sort of cultural institution in the morning, a fancy lunch out, and a movie in the afternoon. Before the massive renovation in the 1980s that included building the Oceanarium, there was a small exhibit I loved. It was all about sea lore and magical creatures like kraken, mermaids, and selkies. It had the most wonderful reproductions of drawings and etchings from old bestiaries, and I tried to draw my own versions at home after every visit.

And then there was the consuming crush I had on the striking, dark haired actress from _The Secret of Roan Inish_. I actually stole the movie poster from the local theater and taped it on the ceiling above my bed. Her strong profile, her gently curling long hair blowing in an ocean breeze as she stood on the shore, bathed in golden light. I can close my eyes and see every detail of that poster, I studied it so closely.

So when Mark Voltura welcomed us behind the scenes at the Aquarium to work on the pinniped carcasses, I was beyond excited.

A couple of the people in the class were clearly revolted by the idea of taking apart a seal, but I had never had the opportunity to be so close to one. As soon as the mammal collection tech showed us around the necropsy facility, explaining the disinfectant baths for our feet, the UV lights to keep down bacterial growth, the research samples we were collecting, and where to find gloves and scalpel blades, I stepped straight up to the stainless steel table where the dead seal lay.

Only half listening as the tech divided us in teams, I studied the animal in front of me. She was bigger than I would have thought, easily as long as I was tall. Her coat was metallic, burnished silver spattered with dark pewter spots. Her muzzle was bristly with course whiskers and she had no ear flaps. In death, her eyes were flat black disks, but in life I knew they would have been liquid brown, soft and observant.

Without waiting to be told, I reached for a front flipper, marveling that this was her arm. I could hardly contain the curiosity coursing through me at slicing out her humerus, radius and ulna; they must be considerably shorter and much more robust than my own, and her hand—the bulk of her flipper—was huge. The phalanges—finger bones—all together formed a hand almost as long as my arm, and I'm a lanky guy.

The tech moved to our table and began outlining what we were looking for: this seal had died while pregnant and her keepers were devastated. Harbor seals are rare, and to have a pup born at the Aquarium was everyone's hope. Protected in the wild by the Federal Marine Mammal Protection Act, it was against the law to harm them; before 1960, hefty bounties were paid for their pelts, because fisherman believed they ate significant amounts of commercially valuable fish. In less than twenty years, seventeen thousand seals were killed for the bounty.

The Aquarium wanted an autopsy and tissue samples to determine why the seal died and what, if anything, was wrong with the fetal pup. I found myself drawn to the animal on the table, caring about her fate as if I had known her. I knew that by the time we were done with our tasks, I would know her inside and out, but that wasn't the kind of knowing I hungered for. As I pressed my scalpel against the sheen of her sleek fur, I daydreamed about being her caretaker, feeding her, training her, swimming with her. I smiled to myself; Carlisle would bust a gut at the idea of my becoming a seal keeper at the aquarium.

But my mom would love the idea. She had always supported me, no matter what I was doing. She saw me in my student plays and thought I'd be an award-winning actor. She loved my drawings and for a while encouraged me to be a scientific illustrator. When it was obvious I didn't have the patience for that pursuit, she helped me learn about other careers, even taking me to the hospital where Carlisle worked and cajoling hapless workers into giving me tours. The fast-paced environment of the ER excited me, and I was riveted by incoming trauma cases, the intense expression on faces during triage, the barely contained speed with which nurses and doctors moved, the borderline violence of assessing, cleaning and repairing life-threatening wounds. But over time, exactly what drew me in began to repulse me. The constant stickiness of blood and other body fluids, the smell of damaged flesh, and the laser-sharp mental focus that obliterated everything else. I started to want more in my life than trauma, yet I knew I wanted my life to hold some kind of significance.

As I immersed myself in the alien beauty of the seal, how smooth and muscular and powerful she was, how sad I felt to have never seen her swim, I started to hear the tech—really hear his words—as he described to us how this animal, so anatomically similar to me, had a highly developed sense of touch, using it along with songs and belly vocalizations almost below the range of human hearing, to communicate in the dim ocean depths. He told us how seals like to "haul out" on protected beaches, rocks, or log rafts to bask in the sun and sleep. At the slightest sign of danger they'd slip back into the water where they'd swim with power and grace. And he detailed how the highest mortality rate for harbor seals occurs during the first few months of life; pups may be stillborn, premature, or they may starve. All the more reason to find out what caused the death of this particular seal.

My gloves were stained with dried blood when Mark Voltura came in to pitch his research. I collected the last of the needed tissue samples, stripped off my gloves, and gave him my full attention. He described the research opportunity, living on a converted trawler for several months while duplicating the work of Kaiser and Hinz, two Brits working in the North Sea. They had studied how bottom trawling—the dragging of massive fishing nets along the floor of the ocean—had widespread impacts on benthic communities and habitats. Since a huge percentage of animal life found in the ocean floor formed the bottom of the food pyramid for marine mammals like my seal, their research might hold the key to the mystery of why food sources were disappearing.

The Brits had looked at two communities, one muddy and one sandy, and found chronic trawling had a negative impact on the biomass and production of benthic communities in the muddy habitat, while no impact was identified on benthic communities from the sandy habitat. Since the bulk of the benthic fauna were in the muddy bottoms, and since mud was mostly where the trawlers worked, it was beginning to look like overfishing wasn't simply a problem for chefs of seafood restaurants.

If the British research results could be duplicated elsewhere, powerful arguments could be made for finding better ways to fish. And that was exactly what Mark and his brother Aaron Voltura had set out to do.

By the time Dr. Voltura was outlining all the ways marine mammals were being harmed by human actions on the ocean, I knew that I wanted his internship more than I'd wanted anything in a long time. I was willing to play the "my dad was university pals with your brother" card if it gave me an edge.

That was how I'd wound up in the Field Museum of Natural History, sitting across a huge old desk from Carlisle's colleague, Aaron Voltura.

We had talked for over an hour, the Doc and I winding each other up until I was almost bouncing in my chair and he was gesticulating so wildly that his Italian roots were irrefutable. We both shared a passion for preserving the mystery and romance of the sea, although he left me no doubt that I had a lot to learn. But for the first time in what felt like years, I was genuinely excited to have learning to do.

As our interview was drawing to a close, Aaron Voltura leaned over his big desk and captured my eyes with his. "Edward, your enthusiasm is obvious. I think both you and the project would benefit from your becoming my intern. But I must ask you: why?"

I scowled a bit. "I'm not sure what you mean, sir."

"Well," he chuckled, shaking his head, "You seem to have everything in place for a career as illustrious as your father's—it looks to me like you could step right into his shoes. That is, if he ever decides to retire." Those dark Mediterranean eyes twinkled at me.

"Well, sir, there you've hit the proverbial nail on its proverbial head: Carlisle will never retire. And this baby needs a new pair of shoes."

Dr. Voltura threw back his head and laughed. As his face grew serious again, I leaned forward and recounted to him my childhood fascination with the sea, its mysteries and revelations, and how right I'd felt working on that seal in his brother's lab. "I know I can't solve the whole puzzle, but I want the chance to fit one little piece into place in the big picture. That much I know I can do."

I knew I'd said the right thing when he stood up and said, "Edward, if Carlisle thinks this is a good idea, then I have no objections. I'll call you next week to work out the details of where to meet the boat in Washington.' He extended his hand, "Welcome aboard."

I took it and shook it vigorously, grinning ear to ear. I was on course to leave behind a life in medicine and do what men searching for their place in the world had done for centuries: head out to sea.

And I figured Carlisle couldn't very well object to what I was doing, since he had opened the door for me and invited me to walk on through.


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's note: a bit short, yes, but I didn't want to make you wait! I'm totes enjoying Sheddward...**

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**Chapter 2**

They all called me Ted. Edward was too stuffy for this bunch. When they were teasing me, which was pretty much all the time, Emmett and Jasper called me Teddy. Emmett also called me Docward, Doc Ted, Dick Doc, and Bus Ted, as in, "Man, you are so _busted!"_

Emmett McCarty was first mate and all around strong man; he was as tall as me and twice as broad, with dark curly hair, laughing blue eyes, and the sort of dimples that made women sigh. He had broad shoulders, muscular arms, and big hands. Immense. And immensely smart. Though he'd never admit to that. He was probably not that much older than me, but his constant joking banter and his ready boisterous laugh made him seem much younger. His jovial nature belied a seriousness underneath—he loved being part of a research mission, even though he'd been a fisherman his whole life.

Rose Hale was Emmett's wife and the boat's mechanic. She kept our engines running, our winches greased, and our nocturnal emissions wet. She was drop dead gorgeous, in an untouchable, bitchy way. Her long blond hair was usually twanked up in a messy bun, her phenomenal figure—truth be told, a bit too much of it for my tastes—typically clad in coveralls, and her large blue eyes piercing and intelligent. Her nails were stained from working all day with grease and oil, but the skin exposed by the zipper at her collarbone was smooth and honey brown.

Jasper Whitlock was our navigator, cook, and climate genius. He was lanky and tall with long wavy blond hair and the sort of tan that only years in the sun created. The doctor in me cringed at the thought of the damage to his skin, but the pale indoor geek in me was jealous. He was an artist with a knife, was hugely stronger than he looked, had the kind of innate understanding of marine life that I wanted to have, and spoke way too many languages. He had a calm, natural way of relating to everybody, and his eyes could look right through any bullshit down into the soul of a person; he didn't have a lot to say, but what there was, was pertinent and always right.

Our skipper, Charlie Swan, was the typical taciturn offspring of pioneer stock, men who had risked life and family crossing the country to find a better existence and wound up spending it on fishing boats. He came from a long line of boat captains, and he knew the waters from Puget Sound to the Bering Sea like I knew the Hippocratic oath: front to back and upside down. Charlie was a square, muscular man with black hair and blacker eyes, who found little use for words, but could be eloquent with a glance, a shrug, or a twitch of his graying mustache. He knew boats, and fish, and the fact that putting the two together was hurting the planet. He was more than willing to figure out how to keep it all healthy and turn a profit while doing so, because fishing for a living had not ever done any of that for him.

It was Charlie who had given over his operation to Mark Voltura's research needs and taken on Mark's doctoral candidates James and Peter. Along with a guy named Felix, who I'd never met because he was currently on a boat off Iceland, these two had spent three years on the Bellissima, trawling, diving, recording, speculating, sampling, and reporting. Life on the ocean had made them hard in body and spirit, and I was a little envious. But the one guy, James, was also a little scary. I couldn't figure out how someone working toward a Ph.D in marine conservation could seem like such a brawler, but I wouldn't want to cross him in a bar unless I had someone like Emmett at my side.

Everything about living on Bellissima was an adjustment. No one took it easy on me, and from the first day, I was scrambling to keep up. There was no space, no privacy, and for days, until I learned to duck through doors, I kept whacking my head. We were up before dawn, to bed right after dark, and in between, there was hard physical work, outdoors in all weather.

For the first time in my life, I was out in the real world, of sea and sky, at the mercy of the weather. The "partly cloudy" veneer of television forecasts was a joke out here, and having access to and understanding climate data was key to a successful day. But I also felt in tune with a life rhythm so much more meaningful than the hum of air conditioning. Sleeping on the boat was the best sleep I'd ever had: the gentle rocking lulled me to sleep, totally relaxed. Of course, being exhausted helped too.

Everything, including me, was encrusted with salt. My clothes were perpetually damp, even on warm days. My calluses from playing the guitar quickly blended into larger, multi-layered ones from rope work and deck duty. Meals were eaten hot, fast, and greasy, and I was grateful for every mouthful. And learning to get in and out of a hammock—not to mention sleeping in one—was an exercise in frustration that had me thudding gracelessly to the floor on more than one occasion.

Yet somehow, life on the water was calming, more vivid. Very quickly I came to realize that what I had been doing up until now was existing, and suddenly I was really living, every hour of every day. Waking up in the morning and seeing the water surrounding us in all its myriad colors and textures was better than any vacation. Sunsets were more brilliant, and absolutely nothing could top the sight of waves splashing silver in the moonlight, while a porpoise pod swam alongside. A cup of scalding, bitter coffee on a bone-chilling morning or a cold beer at the end of a ten-hour work day or a plate of potatoes fried in bacon fat were the most delicious things I'd ever tasted.

Most importantly, despite the ribbings I took as a landlubber, the sore muscles, the windburn, and the frequent queasiness from the constant rolling motion, Bellissima and her crew welcomed me, gave me a purpose, and I felt more at ease in my own skin than I had for a very long time. Despite Carlisle's nagging doubts, I knew I was where I should be—where I should have been all along.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 3**

"There's someone in the net!" Emmett cried above the raging storm. I gaped at him, squinting in the furious spray, then turned to look at the tangled mound on the ramp. Jasper was already slapping at the winch controls, and Peter and James were skidding along the slick deck like burly ice skaters.

Cursing a blue streak, Jasper bent to the net, then yelled, "KNIFE!" to no one in particular. James slapped an immense blade into Jasper's palm, and he expertly spun the handle into his grip and slashed repeatedly at the heavy mesh. "Cocksucker!" Emmett howled in dismay, "Charlie's gonna snip your motherfuckin' balls when he sees what you're doing to his trawl!" But we all knew there was no choice.

I bent to the soaked mass Jasper exposed as he tossed the cut lines away. It was small, waterlogged, and gray—a boy?—with a white foot extending from one end and a snarl of dark hair at the other. "Ted," he shouted, motioning me closer. I shook my head, and he grabbed for my arm, "You're the doctor!" I shook my head again, but dropped to my knees next to the figure, and tore off a glove. I squirmed my frozen fingers through the matted hair until I encountered icy skin, but I couldn't find a pulse.

"Let's get him below deck," I shouted to Emmett, as Jasper and I each grasped a limb and dragged the lifeless form off the ramp. Emmett stooped to wrestle the body over his shoulder. Jasper scrambled up to help Peter and James ship the boom, and I saw James slip his knife in his thigh sheath.

I followed Emmett into the wheelhouse, where our captain, Charlie Swan, was barking into the radio. His dark eyes grew huge when he saw what Emmett carried, and I could see the unspoken question in them; I only shrugged and followed Emmett below. As he ducked under the bulkhead, Emmett called out, "Rose! Rosie!" before dropping to his knees and gingerly depositing his load on the galley floor.

Blond hair piled up in a messy knot ducked through the door from the boiler, attached to a curvy figure in a dark green jumpsuit. Ice blue eyes in an oval face marred with a streak of black grease flew to mine, before the woman who was our mechanic and Emmett's wife knelt down beside him, scrubbing her hands against her pants legs. Her eyes moved from me to Emmett to the still person on the floor and back, before reaching out a hesitant hand and pushing the nest of hair back.

All of us gasped. The face Rose had exposed wasn't a boy's, as we'd all assumed, but a young woman. In life, she must have been beautiful, her dark lashes laying on cheeks so pale she was blue, her full lips slightly parted and purple from cold. There was a dull bruise along one delicate cheekbone, fading into her hairline at her temple, where there was a trickle of blood.

Blood! _Holy shit!_ If she was bleeding, she was alive! I sprang forward, rolling her to her side and lifting one ice cube arm above her, slapping her hard between the shoulder blades, feeling the points of her vertebrae poke my palm. I rolled her again, to her stomach, turning her head to the side, hoping as I moved her that her neck wasn't broken. I placed my ear to her back. No heartbeat. I started pressing down on her rib cage, trying to expel the water I was certain must be in her lungs. "Em, get blankets, "I ordered. "Rose, get her clothing off."

I heard, rather than saw, a knife slice through fabric, then Rose exclaimed, "What the hell?" I looked then, and felt my eyes widen. _What the hell_ indeed? Under the ripped clothing—could it have actually been a dress?—the woman had on what could only be described as a corset. It must have once been white, with lace tatting along the lower edge that skimmed the upper curve of a perfect ass, where another large bruise was evident against the pallor. I flushed at noticing her nakedness and pushed on her ribs again, feeling the boning in the corset almost like armor cladding her slenderness.

"Get this thing off her," I grated through clenched teeth, whether from cold or embarrassment I couldn't be sure. Rose sawed at the garment, "Jesus, what the fuck is this shit made of?" Emmett returned from the bunks with an armload of blankets, and bent to help Rose, his huge hands tearing the wet fabric. As Rose started packing blankets around the woman, I pushed my hands against her now naked back, feeling her frigid skin like satin over ice as I pressed down. This time, her ribs rebounded and a great gout of gray water gushed from her mouth. I rolled her back on her side just as she began to sputter and cough. I lifted her face up out of the puddle and Emmett shoved several towels under her head.

Just as Rose tugged off the shredded undergarment to spread a blanket over the woman's torso, I glimpsed more lace and floral embroidery along the cups that held her breasts. The soaked fabric was transparent and her nipples were tight and lavender; I flushed again. My voice was husky with relief and even more embarrassment when I spoke, "We've got to warm her up. Is there anything like hot water bottles?" Rose shook her head, but Emmett was already pulling empty plastic water jugs from the carton where we put our recycling, passing them to Rose. She ducked back into the boiler room to fill them—one thing we never lacked was hot water.

Emmett scrambled topside and returned with one of our scuba tanks. He passed me the mouthpiece and cranked the regulator. I tried to pry open the woman's jaws to insert the mouthpiece, but they were clenched like a bear trap, and she was still coughing anyway. Emmett used the knife Rose had used, slicing the bottom off another bottle and grabbing some duct tape to attach the bottle to the hose; he held the bottle's open end over the woman's face so she could get the straight oxygen. Her breathing began to ease almost immediately. Other than her expulsion of water, and her reflexive coughing, she hadn't moved or opened her eyes.

Rose started passing in bottles filled with hot water. I rolled the woman onto a blanket, and repacked the other blankets around her, before placing the bottles around her on the outside of the covers; I didn't want to warm her too fast, which could damage her organs and skin. From what I could see, she was already pretty beaten up. I allowed myself a moment to wonder where she'd come from and how on earth she'd survived the sea in this storm. This far from shore, she had to have been on a boat caught unawares. Were there others out there in the water? I shuddered.

"Ted, you're freezing," Rose observed. "We'll watch her. Take a hot shower and get into some dry clothes." I smiled gratefully at her. My legs were shaking when I stood up, and I thought for the millionth time that I'd always considered myself strong from running and lifting weights, but these people were mad fit, never seeming to cave in the frigid temperatures and constant pitch of the sea. In the shock and struggle to revive the woman, I hadn't even felt the trawler still rolling, but now I was overcome with fatigue from the exertion and cold. The roar of the storm flooded back into my senses, and I heard Jasper and Charlie in the wheelhouse above, shouting over the wind.

I stood in the passageway as I stripped off my sweater and overalls. My hair was still slightly crunchy from being frozen. I could barely hold open my eyes from exhaustion as I stooped under the miniscule shower and hunched under the spray. I allowed myself a full minute under the hot water—we had to ration all our water use carefully when we were this far offshore—before stepping out and scouring my skin with one of the big towels. I put antibacterial ointment on my palms where the wet ropes had abraded the skin. From my locker under my bunk, I pulled out a dry tee shirt and sweater, another set of flannel-lined overalls and some thick wool socks. I put them on and returned to the galley.

Emmett had taken off his all-weather gear and was sitting next to the woman, still holding his makeshift oxygen mask. I was struck by how relatively dry he was, something I couldn't seem to master. Everyone teased me about how wet I always was. I'd completely given up on my hair, which had always had a mind of its own and was now permanently standing up in whorls and waves. I mostly kept it crammed under a watch cap. I thought momentarily about my storm hat, now lost at sea.

The idea of being lost at sea made me bend down next to Emmett to look at the woman we had rescued. She was still out, but now had the merest hint of color in her face. Rose had toweled dry her hair, which I could now tell was brown. "Go tell Charlie what's up," I said to Emmett, and Rose took over holding the oxygen to the woman's pale face. The regulator hissed, combining with the groaning of the boat, the slamming sea, and the boiler's roar to make a noisy accompaniment as I started examining the woman.

I loosed the blankets from each limb in turn, moving her joints and inspecting her skin. I raised my eyebrows at Rose with the surprise of finding no broken arms or legs. I lifted her eyelids and looked at her pupils. I probed gently around the cut on her head; her skull felt solid. I wondered about stitches, thinking it would be a shame to shave out a hunk of her long hair. But the bleeding had stopped and even though the gash was raw, it was clean and only skin deep; there was no exposed bone. She had no other cuts and few abrasions, with just the giant bruise on her buttock and the nasty one on her face. The nails on one hand were torn below the quick, like she'd scrabbled to hold onto something and snapped the nails when she lost her grip. Overall, she was in surprisingly good shape. Other than the fact that she was unconscious, that is.

I used scissors to clip a small amount of hair away from her cut, then pressed a gauze pad to her wound and held it on with a pressure bandage wrapped around her head. Just as I started to ask Rose about where to move her, Charlie clattered down the ladder, followed closely by Jasper. Both stared down at the woman on the floor, but neither showed much emotion, although I could tell Charlie was holding back—his thick, dark mustache twitched when he was fighting his normally taciturn nature. Still looking at the woman, he said, "Move her to my bunk." Rose and I both nodded, and I was immediately relieved; Charlie had the only private space on the trawler. He continued, his gruff voice comforting in its certainty, "The storm's moving out to sea. Other than the trawl"—his eyes shot to Jasper, who raised his hands in supplication—"there's no real damage." He studied each of us in turn, before asking me, "What's going on here?" inclining his head toward the woman.

"Well, she's alive," I said, like that was some sort of explanation. Charlie demanded clarification with just his look. "She's in amazing shape, given how pummeled she must have been. Looks like she hit something pretty hard," I motioned to her bruised face.

"Said anything?" Charlie asked and I shook my head.

"She hasn't been conscious. She had a lot of water in her lungs and her heart was stopped. She's hypothermic and likely has a concussion, but I don't think her skull is fractured. Without being able to test…" I shrugged to indicate I'd done what I could for now.

Charlie blew out a gust of air, scrubbed a roughened hand over his face, and turned to holler up the ladder, "Emmett! Put her in for Port Angeles!"

* * *

**Author's note: now we're getting' somewhere! Ahoy the ship!**

**REC: The Diva Diaries by KiyaRaven; if you aren't reading this slice of brilliance, what are ya doing over here? Go: read it now and be amazed!**

[2020]


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 4**

As Charlie predicted, the storm moved rapidly over us, and the swell calmed a bit. Jasper made a skillet of sausage, peppers, onions, and potatoes, and until I smelled it cooking, I hadn't realized I was famished. I watched Emmett shovel down two immense bowls full doused in ketchup, before I spooned some into a dish and stepped into Charlie's cabin.

The woman was lying exactly as she'd been when Rose and I moved her, lifting the corners of the blanket she was on to form a stretcher; she certainly didn't weigh much, although laying down it was hard to tell her size. I'd guess she would come up to my chin, but I'm tall, and the quick glimpse I'd had of her naked body told me she was slender.

Rose had brought in the remnants of the dress the woman had been wearing, and it hung in tatters from a hook on the wall, gray and soggy and weirdly shimmering. The corset thing she'd had on under her clothing was draped across the foot of the bed. I sat the bowl of hash down on the shelf by the bunk, and fingered the corset. Underneath the silky fabric, it was like architecture, solid and uncomfortable looking. _Who in the hell wears something like this?_ I wondered, right before I heard a soft groan. My head snapped around, my eyes flying to the woman's face. Her eyes were still closed, but she'd moved her head, turning her face away from the hull. In the soft light from the passageway, I could examine her face undisturbed. Her skin was ivory, absolutely smooth and flawless—even Rose, who was super pretty, didn't have skin this perfect. Her hair was a nest of mahogany, matted under the bandage, but even snarled, it was alive with red and gold and auburn. Her lashes were impossibly long and dark where they lay along her high cheekbones. Her brows were delicate angel wings, tilted dark against her pallor. And her lips…

Without even realizing it, I had bent in closer to her, drawn to her plump, rosy, slightly chapped lips. I noted the returning color with relief, and wondered if they were as warm as they looked. _Was I thinking of kissing her?_ I marveled, when I became aware of being watched. With a start, I saw the woman's eyes were open, although not quite focused. They were large and brown and seemed to be much more iris than sclera, and my training was telling me they'd be very dilated if she was concussed, right before she gasped and gave a tiny squeak.

She was looking right at me, and her eyes widened in surprise. Her hand lifted under the blanket, knocking one of the water bottles off the bunk with a gurgling thud. Several things happened very fast: she tried to sit up, I tried to help her and reassure her, and my sudden movement must have frightened her, because she let out a yell that was a lot like the hyenas I'd heard on nature programs. I jumped back, just as Jasper and Emmett appeared in the doorway, with Peter and James right behind. The woman leapt up from the bunk, staggered dizzily, and fell back into the blankets, most of her nakedness exposed. We stared at her—_my god she was fucking gorgeous_—and she stared at us. Seconds or hours ticked by, when I realized she was gabbling in a foreign language.

Jasper was listening, obviously puzzled, and Emmett's eyes were bugging out because she had not attempted to cover herself, before he yelped and ducked: Rose was standing behind him, having smacked him on the head. As all this happened, the woman, who I could see clearly was more of a girl, was beginning to panic, her eyes wild, her hands gesticulating, her voice growing louder, with an edgy, gulping whine that was making my ears hurt.

I stepped in between the girl and my shipmates, "Guys, please! It's too much for her!" Rose said, "Sure, Ted," and pushed back on James and Peter to move them out of the doorway. Emmett mumbled "sorry" but he backed out with his eyes still on the girl. Jasper stayed. I could sense the girl growing still behind me and her babbling stopped. Into the quiet, Jasper started speaking Russian. I turned to look at the girl, who looked from me to Jasper and back in complete confusion, before her eyes rolled up in her head and she sagged back on the bunk. I lunged and caught her before her head smacked on the hull. She felt solid and still too cold, and I placed her in the blankets, pulling them back over her.

Jasper had moved to stand next to me, and we looked down at the girl, but she was completely out again. I felt uneasy at that, wondering if her head injury was worse than it appeared, and glad we were only a day from shore and help.

I motioned to my bowl of food, "I'll sit with her for a few minutes." Jasper nodded and went back out to the galley. I could hear questioning voices and was glad no one came back to gawk.

As I slowly chewed my food, I reviewed the past couple of hours in my mind, feeling like I'd been watching a movie. I knew this reaction was part of my own overwhelming exhaustion creeping over me. How exactly had she come to be on the water in this storm? If there had been a missing boat, the news would have come across the radio and we'd have heard about it. Where had this girl come from, and how in Hell's name had she survived in the swell to be caught in our net?

Rose, having calmed everybody down, or more likely chastised them all for their ogling, stepped back in to check on our castaway. She tenderly swept the girl's hair from her face, reminding me that Rose wasn't always as bitchy as she came off. She blew out a breath, buzzing her lips in frustration, before giving me a perplexed look; I could tell she had the same questions I did. Then her eyes narrowed as she took me in, before reaching under the bunk and pulling out a hammock; I stood to help her snap it into the triangular fastenings at a diagonal across the corner of the cabin.

"Get some sleep, Ted," Rose said, patting me on the shoulder and taking my empty bowl. I nodded, suddenly too tired to speak, and stripping off my sweater and tee shirt, I rolled into the hammock, dead to the world.

* * *

**Author's note: another "short and sweet" chapter, but there will be more over the weekend, promise! I'm writing with a vengeance—hurray!**


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 5**

I came out of sleep hot and feeling like I was tied up in the blankets. I'd slept fitfully, my rest interrupted by weird dreams, looming gray shadows like giants swimming in my periphery, which sparkled like sun dancing on water, getting ever warmer, ever stickier, closing in on me.

As I struggled to orient myself in the dim light, I focused on the steady thrum of the trawler engines and the controlled slapping of the hull through water that meant we were out of harm's way and on calmer seas.

I pushed my sweaty hair from my brow, and as I went to drop my arm, felt something solid pressed tightly against me. With a start, I realized it was the rescued woman, curled around me in the drooping hammock, and the surprise of finding her next to me shocked any last sleep from my eyes.

As I shifted tentatively, not wanting to tip us both on the floor, her liquid brown eyes opened to mine. I held still, not even breathing, and studied her face. She was still pale, but her full lips were blossom pink and her high cheekbones were brushed with a hint of peach. Her eyes, behind thick dark lashes, were alert and curious. I exhaled a grateful breath and smiled at her.

At first, she looked puzzled, her eyes flicking from mine to my lips and back; she raised one perfectly arched brow in question and a tremulous trill came from her throat. It was a rich sound, almost a purr, and I was vaguely disturbed to find it sexy.

"Good morning," I said softly, not wanting to scare her, and both her brows flew up. She then trilled in earnest, and made soft, guttural sounds in the back of her mouth. I shook my head, hoping she understood that I wasn't following her words. She reached out a soft hand and laid it gently on my cheek. I felt a buzzing tingle at her touch before I realized her hand was hot—_she must be running fever._

I twisted from the blankets to get up, and it was then I realized that she was naked in the hammock with me. The sight of her ivory skin glowing faintly in the early morning light made my cock twitch—_Jesus Christ Cullen!_ I admonished myself—_yes, it's been a long time, but you can't be so hard up as to want a shipwrecked stranger with a head injury!_

_A beautiful stranger. A heart-stoppingly gorgeous stranger. A totally naked, gorgeous stranger with a fever…_

That propelled me to my feet, knowing she'd need aspirin and more blankets right away; I wanted to examine her head wound for any signs of infection. As I straightened up, her eyes flew wide—I was pretty tall—and she began burbling in musical coos that sounded like mid-range notes on an oboe, one of my favorite instruments to listen to. I shook my head again, and she reached for me with both graceful arms. She moved like a dancer. I wondered briefly if she was a Russian ballerina, before recalling Jasper speaking to her in Russian, which she didn't seem to understand.

I took her hands to reassure her and she instantly twined her fingers with mine. It was the weirdest thing, but I felt so comfortable and grounded by her touch. It seemed to calm her also, because her face relaxed, and when I smiled at her again, her own lips curved up slowly. Strangely, I almost felt like she wasn't used to smiling, like it didn't come naturally to her.

I decided to try something. Freeing one hand from her grasp—which wasn't easy; she held on tight—I motioned to myself and said slowly, "I'm Edward." I could see her watch my lips, so I said it again, "Edward." Her mouth moved and I could see her pink tongue behind startling white teeth. I nodded and tugged a little on her hand to encourage her. "Yes, I'm Edward."

She nodded hard, then carefully formed the sounds, "Um berd." I grinned at her attempt and pointed to myself again, pleased she seemed to understand that I was identifying myself. I motioned to her, hoping she'd give me her name.

She erupted in a long string of gull cries and kitten mews and a low growl that made my cock throb again. I raised my eyebrows—_shit, was that her name?_ She must have seen my puzzlement, because she repeated her sounds and this time I caught a few.

"Bee-ler-grrrr?" I tried.

She barked out what could only be a laugh and curled up on herself, snorting through her delicate nostrils. _Gah,_ I really needed to get her covered up! I glanced around the cabin, and spied my tee shirt from the night before. It would be big on her, which was just what I wanted right now. As I turned back to her, I saw that she had gotten out of the hammock and was standing disconcertingly close—_my god she was quiet!_

I held the shirt in between us, blocking the delicious view of her small, high breasts, her flat abdomen and slender hips, and her long, strong legs. Her hair, still somewhat snarled, tumbled down her back almost to her waist, and seemed to be a deep burgundy brown with a definite sheen. I found myself wanting to brush it.

I scowled and shook the shirt, trying to get her to take it, but she only looked bemused. She stepped right up against me, the top of her head reaching my chin, and with only the layer of cloth between us, her heat was like a furnace. I looked down at her, my mouth open, thinking how easy it would be to kiss her.

I shook my head hard to clear it. _What was wrong with me?_ The woman needed help and I was lusting after her like a college kid. "Beelergrr," I tried again, feeling exasperated at our lack of communication. I stepped back and made motions like I was pulling the shirt over my head, then I handed it to her. Finally, she got what I wanted and drew the shirt over her head, and I started to relax as her lovely body was covered when _fuck me_ if she didn't pull the neck of the shirt up to her nose and inhale deeply. She made a rolling rumble in her chest, and as she dropped the neck of the shirt, she smiled at me, a big, wide, glorious smile. I couldn't help but return it.

Instantly she pressed herself against me, not putting her arms around me, but curving and bending her entire body around me, the way a hungry cat rubs around your legs at feeding time. I actually gasped at the sensuality of it and she purred even louder. She lifted one leg and wrapped her calf behind my knee; she must be a dancer: her balance was unwavering. And my dick was as hard as a rock.

Thank god I'd slept in pants.

Gently, not wanting to hurt her or make her feel rejected, I eased back from her. Her brow creased adorably and a string of bubbling sounds flowed from her. She reached for me, and I took her hand; just as before, her fingers tangled with mine like she'd been holding my hand her whole life. _She's probably scared,_ I thought, yet she seemed lucid, steady, and calm. Sort of an energized calm. Like she was curious. Like she trusted me.

"Are you hungry?" I said, knowing she wouldn't understand, but needing to speak anyway. I raised my free hand toward her injury, and she immediately leaned her face into my touch. "I want to look at your wound," I said, "and I need to get you some aspirin. I think we have antibiotics on board." I trailed off when I realized she was stroking her cheek against my palm, her eyes almost closed. _Motherfucker, what was it with this girl?_ She had some sort of touch mania thing going and it was contagious. I just wanted to rub up against her like a dog rolling in something stinky. She was far from stinky. She smelled amazing, if a bit oceanic. Musky and salty and hot animal.

We had to get out of this cabin.

I put three feet between us and flung open the door. The noises of the boat and the crew poured in and the girl shrank back, her eyes dilating to black. Hoping she would understand my encouragement, I smiled and held out my hand, and she practically leapt to take it.

"Um berd," she whispered, peering around me and out the door. "Beelerg," I replied. She looked at me then, and grasped my jaw in her astonishingly strong fingers. "Buh laa grrrr," she said deliberately, tugging on my chin as she spoke. "Buh-larg-arg," I tried. It just made her snort again and shake her head. Well, at least the sign for "you're an idiot" was universal.

Holding tight to her hand, I lead her into the gangway and along to the galley. I could smell coffee and cigarettes and something fried; my mouth watered. Behind me, the rescued girl held back, and I wiggled my fingers against hers, hoping she understood that it was okay. And she seemed to, like we were communicating with touch.

The crew was crowded around the table, sucking up coffee and shoveling in food; mealtimes were always hectic and uncultured. Meat was often eaten off the point of filleting knives. Strong coffee was slurped from mugs. Emmett could say words when he belched, like, "Rosie Hale is the love of my life." This morning was no different.

Jasper, turning from the burner with a frying pan in his hand, saw us immediately. His eyes widened, then narrowed, and suddenly, all eyes were on us. I realized a little too late that I was naked from the waist up, holding hands with the tousled stranger who was wearing my tee shirt.

"The humping hero!" Emmett roared, sending the girl cringing behind me.

"No," I sputtered, at the same time, and looking straight at Emmett, I admonished, "How could you think that?" Rose must have agreed, because she smacked Emmett hard on the back of his head, almost sending his face into his plate.

"Ow!" he yelped. "Dammit, Rosie, that hurt!"

"Ya big baby," she returned, but passed her knuckles down the side of his face in a soothing gesture.

The girl had squirmed her upper body under my arm, and was pressed tightly to me. Without thinking, I was stroking my hand up her arm and along her back. Call me crazy, but I could feel her relax against me.

"Has she said anything?" Charlie asked, tipping his mug toward the girl.

"We might have traded names," I answered hesitantly. A man of few words, Charlie only quirked his brow.

I looked down at the woman pressed against me and sensing my motion, she looked up at me. I smiled and said, "Burlarg," and she returned my smile, responding, "Um berd."

"What the hell?" Emmett stared at us. "What was _that?"_

"Her name, I think," I spoke without taking my eyes off hers.

"And she calls you _what?"_

"Edward," I sniffed, a bit irked that Emmett didn't understand her valiant effort, when she opened her mouth, pouring out a stream of blipping, rasping, and sawing sounds that reminded me of the submarine sonar on old television shows; her version of my name was liberally inserted throughout, and she motioned gracefully with one arm, while the other was clasped around my waist.

All eyes were riveted on her, and the astonishment in the room was palpable. She looked from one person to the next, meeting with blank stares. I gave her a squeeze of encouragement, and she rumbled a purr back at me.

This time it was Rose whose eyes flew open before squinting at me. Her voice was cool when she asked, "What did you say her name is?"

"Well," I hesitated, uncertain. "I think it's sort of like 'BURRlarg.'" The girl made a noise that was almost a giggle as I butchered her name. Rose's eyes softened and she got up from the table and stepped up to us. Motioning to herself, she said, "Rosalie."

The girl looked from Rose to me and back. Then she said softly, "Rowzahleeee." Rose broke into a smile that would make dentists drool, before motioning to the girl. She responded immediately, "Bellurga." Rose slowly raised her hand and gently touched the girl's face. You could have knocked me over with a feather when the girl flung herself at Rose, wrapping arms, and even one leg around her, nuzzling her face into Rose's neck.

Rose's blue eyes were wide and sparkling as she looked over the girl's shoulder at me, "She's burning up, Ted."

I nodded and turned to a cabinet for aspirin. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Jasper hold out his skillet, asking the girl with a gesture if she wanted his crispy fried flatfish.

I turned from the cabinet, bottle in hand, to see her lean over the pan, inhaling deeply. She straightened up, sniffing the air and casting around as if looking for something. She focused on the prep surface next to Jasper, where a large, whole flatfish lay waiting to be gutted and cleaned. She made an alien gurgle, sprang at the fish, and grasping it in both hands, she bit off the head. My jaw almost hit the deck as I watched her delicate chin grind and crunch, a glistening scale stuck like a strange sequin to her lip. She smiled at me, a fish bone protruding from her teeth, and I swear by everything that is holy, she made a yummy-yummy sound.

And this time when Emmett sputtered, "What the hell?" he was speaking for everyone in the room.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 6**

All eyes were on our rescued woman as she devoured the raw fish, bones, innards, scales, and all. As she sensed everyone's stares, she shuffled back against me, until her entire body was pressed into mine. Since I hadn't put on a shirt, her heat actually felt wonderful. As she snarfed up the fish, she glanced at me, smiling around her gloppy mouthfuls—either she was starving or she was not a finicky eater. But to turn down Jasper's mouthwatering fry for… peculiar sushi… I shrugged.

Jasper made me a plate with fish—cooked—and potatoes, and placed it on the table. As I moved to sit, the girl moved with me like we were glued together. It was the most astonishing thing, how she could glide right along with me as if she could anticipate my own moves and follow them exactly without getting in my way. Although it was actually more like we were moving as one being. _But that's not possible, is it?_ At any rate, by the time I sat in front of my plate, she was half on my lap.

Just as I wondered how I was going to eat with a lap full of attractive, strange, and literally hot girl, she began licking her hands. Rose snagged a towel and handed it to the girl, who looked at it oddly before gingerly holding it between two long fingers. Rose stepped closer, and taking one of the girl's hands—which I now noticed were long and a bit too large for her slender arms—wiped it with the towel. The girl smiled and purred as Rose cleaned her other hand, giving me a swift, raised-eyebrow look that told me her confusion was just as great as mine.

Charlie leaned in, looking steadily at the girl. I could feel her body tense, but she stayed still.

"What'd she say her name is?" Charlie asked no one in particular, his eyes still on her.

"Well, if I didn't know better," Rose responded softly, still hold the girl's hand, "I'd swear she said 'beluga.'" I felt the girl relax at the sound.

"Hmpf," Charlie sniffed, "she's a whale?"—to which Emmett snorted, "That's what _he_ said!"—to which no one paid any attention—and Charlie stated firmly, "Her name's Bella." We all stared at him in silence, the droning engines sounding loud in my ears.

Now, it was no accident the oafish trawler was named Bellissima.

Jasper had told me that years ago, Charlie's wife Renee had been devastated when they couldn't have children, and she had begun flirting around with other guys; it broke Charlie's stoic, shackled heart and he cut out for Italy. "Somewhere warm," was the way Charlie referred to it. Charlie had spent several years netting bluefin tuna in the Mediterranean, before overfishing dried up that livelihood and forced him back home.

Jasper said there were occasional letters from Messina on the coast, which he sometimes had to help Charlie with, since Charlie had only picked up enough of the language to get by. Jasper said he was careful to only give Charlie the translation he asked for, and to read nothing else, but it was obvious from the handwriting and the word choices that these letters were from a woman. When the letters came, Charlie kept the newest one inside his shirt for days.

Jasper had also told me that for a long time, there was a photograph in Charlie's cabin of him standing next to an olive-skinned, dark haired beauty, both of them squinting into the sun with the sea behind them; Jasper had referred to the condition of the photo as "much loved."

In Italian, the word for something of great beauty was "bellissima."

"Bella," I said softly, trying it out.

"Bella?" I said, a bit louder, and stroked the girl's back under the waterfall of brown hair. She snuggled into me, and mumbled, "Um berd." She sounded drowsy, and I thought all this must be pretty taxing for an injured person who had no clue where she was and could not communicate. She needed to take some aspirin and she needed to get back to bed.

"Rose, could I have some water?" I asked, shaking two tablets from the bottle I'd taken from the cabinet—aching muscles were a constant out here on the ocean and we kept bottles of aspirin everywhere. Rose gently untangled her fingers from Bella's and got a mug. As she filled it with water from a gallon jug on the table, I asked Charlie, "Are there any antibiotics on board?"

He nodded and answered, "Doxycycline." He rose from the table and headed back to his cabin, pulling out his keys as he went; I figured he'd have any medicines normally requiring a prescription locked up. I knew doxy was a pretty good general antibacterial, although maybe not the best for an infected wound, but with Bella's fever, I didn't want to wait until we got in port to start treating her.

Charlie returned with a bottle, and after handing it to me, climbed up to the wheelhouse to relieve James. I checked the label to make sure I was giving her the right thing, and hoping she wasn't allergic, I tipped one pill into my hand. I held all three pills on the palm, looking at Bella. Her eyes looked from mine to the pills and back. "Bella?" I said coaxing, and jiggled the mug of water at her. Her eyes grew apprehensive, so I set the water and the pills on the table in front of her. She leaned into me, making tiny mews, but did not move to take the medicine.

I looked around at Rose and Jasper, but both shook their heads as if to say _she's all yours, Ted,_ so I scooped up the pills and mimicked putting them in my mouth and swallowing. Then I lifted one of her hands and placed the pills in her palm.

Bella dropped the pills on the table. I groaned in frustration. She seemed so child-like, yet was obviously a grown woman; did she not understand how to take pills? How was that possible?

James clumped down the ladder, his amusement obvious as he took in Bella on my lap. _What did he have to grin about?_ I'm sure my annoyance showed as I picked up an aspirin and pressed it to Bella's lips. "Bella, you need to take this. It will help you feel better."

Bella's jaw tightened against my intruding fingers and she turned her head, but she did not move off my lap. "Gah!" I muttered, just as Rose spoke up: "Ted, maybe she's nervous with everybody here. Maybe she doesn't know those aren't poison or something."

"Poison?" I scoffed, and Bella flinched at the sound, but she still made no move away from me. I was beginning to feel like I'd acquired a child, and was wondering why everyone thought she was my responsibility, when Rose snapped back, "She doesn't know, Ted! She's obviously not from around here!" All eyes were on me, and Bella was motionless against me.

I pinched the bridge of my nose between my forefinger and thumb, and squeezed my eyes shut. "You're right, Rose," I sighed.

I moved Bella off my lap so she could see me, and caught her eyes with mine. I smiled, hoping to reassure her, then popped one of the aspirin in my mouth and gulped it down with water from the mug. "See?" I smiled wider, "It's okay. Nothing to it." I picked up another pill and pressed it to Bella's lips, but she ducked her head and made a string of ugly guttural sounds—there was no mistaking her intent: she was not going to take the medicine.

Losing my temper completely, I grasped her chin and tried to pry it open like I'd pill a puppy. Bella bolted up and away, baring her teeth, her eyes flashing fiercely, and… barked at me? _Jesus! The girl was barking like a dog! _Out of the corner of my eye, I saw James grinning and shaking his head. _Asshole!_

"I can't do this!" I shouted, standing up so fast the bench thumped over. Emmett stood up between me and Bella, giving me quite the glare, as Rose moved to contain Bella, taking her rigid body in her arms and crooning to her. As I inhaled and exhaled forcefully, calming myself, I saw Bella slump in Rose's grasp, and my medical training kicked back in. In one stride, I scooped Bella up in my arms and carried her to Charlie's cabin.

Once there, I sat her on the bunk and closed the door, shutting out the discussion already starting between Emmett and Rose, dissecting what had just happened. I turned back to Bella, sitting small and tense, looking at me anxiously. I held out my hands in a gesture of both confusion and surrender, and not knowing what else to do, I started talking.

"Bella? I know you don't understand—and that's hard for _me_ to understand—but we won't be in port for another day and we need to reduce your fever and I need to check that cut." I motioned at her head, and her eyes followed my movement. I'd probably undone all the trust she'd had in me when I shouted at her. I approached her slowly, keeping my hands out, and as I reached her, I knelt down so I could look in her eyes.

They were so soft and full and deep; I could fall into them and drown. I was so confused. I wanted to help her. I wanted to understand her. And without a doubt, I wanted to fuck her. And that had me in an uproar of conflicting emotions. This wasn't me: wanting to take advantage of a lost girl, who had no idea where she was, who I was, and who had been through god knows what to wind up mostly naked on Charlie's bunk. I rammed my fingers into my crazy hair, yanking it in disappointment, hoping the sting would jolt me back to the "me" I knew. The Edward who would considerately tend to the girl before getting on with the work of his day. The Edward who was not losing himself in the depth of her gaze.

She seemed calm now, so I shifted up and moving slowly, gently probed around her cut with my fingertips. The wound was hard and only red around the scab, with no inflammation. I was relieved.

I couldn't stop myself running my fingers down along her hair, and Bella lifted her own hand to grasp my wrist, pushing my hand against her head. It was uncanny how this girl _needed_ to touch. I was a complete stranger to her, yet she'd slept with me. She'd purred at Rose cleaning fish goo from her hands. I marveled at how anyone nineteen or twenty years old could still be so trusting and open of the world. _Of the world._ I shook my head a little at the unease I felt—could it be? _Nah! _Being so close to Bella's heat, in the closeness of the cabin, must be getting to me.

Just as I was recognizing I needed to put some space between us and put on more clothes and figure out how to get the meds in her, Bella leaned straight into my chest and hooked her chin across my shoulder. I could feel her body heat through the tee shirt and her breasts flatten against me _this is so fucking wrong!_ and I leaned back on my heels, and damn if she didn't follow.

Even though she was light, I staggered off balance and fell with a whump onto the deck. Bella landed on top of me, the air whooshing out of my lungs. Two things happened. Bella began rubbing her head and body on mine, tangling her legs around mine, and I was getting an… urgency in my balls. That felt even more wrong. But so, so good.

I placed my palms against her shoulders to lift her off me, embarrassed that she'd felt the length of my erection against her muscular abdomen—_maybe she was a swimmer? That might explain how she survived the water_—when a rumble vibrated through her body, the vibrations concentrating in my groin. I froze. From fear: I was impossibly hard and about to get slapped, I was sure. And from pleasure: Bella felt like a big, hot vibrator. If vibrators were alive. And super attractive.

_Gah! _What was it with this girl? _What was it with me?_

As I pushed up on her shoulders again, I wiggled my hips to get out from under her, and she mewed like a kitten recognizing a friend, a tiny, fluttering peep that made my eyes fly to her face. And I was both sorry and mesmerized.

Her hair was a burnished nest, unfurled around her flushed face like seaweed made from silk. Her cheeks were rosy. Her skin was opalescent, almost glowing. Her lush lips were moist and parted, her teeth gleaming behind them and _god help me_ her pink tongue was pushed between them. Her eyes, rimmed by spikes of midnight lashes, were liquid chocolate.

But it was what I saw in them that had me harpooned to the spot: ardor. No. Pure unbridled lust. For me. I almost wanted to look around to see if there was someone else here that she liked. Or even knew. But I was utterly riveted by her eyes. She was pouring her desire into me through them, and it was filling my head with confusion and my cock with blood until both were throbbing.

Unbidden, my arms relaxed, letting her body slowly descend on mine, and her rumbling vibrated my lungs, making it hard to breathe. But breathe I did. I had to, because puffing through her tropical lips was breath so balmy—not sweet, but exhilarating like ocean air—I wanted to gulp it into my lungs. Her eyes were so close I couldn't focus, but I couldn't close my own against their heated tawny depths.

Slowly, like her mouth was magnetic and drawing me in, my head came up off the boards, closing the slim distance between our faces until my lips touched hers. The contact buzzed through my sensitive flesh straight to my crotch like an electric charge through salted water.

Everything froze. I was washed in silence. Bella wasn't breathing, rumbling, moving. Not toward me. Not away.

But I had to have more. I pressed my lips more fully against hers, feeling the softness and the heat of them in every cell, like a hunger. I groaned against her lips, before parting mine and sucking on her lower lip. She was delicious.

And then she was gone.

With an ear-clapping yammer and a sinuous spring I felt more than saw, she flipped to her feet, wiping the back of her hand across her mouth and staring at me with wide, black eyes.

_What had I done?_

_

* * *

_

**Author's note:** if you've never listened to Kate Bush's _The Ninth Wave,_ I highly recommend you do. Use headphones. It is a moving song-cycle about being lost at sea, and even though I have heard it countless times, it still raises goosebumps.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 7**

As I took in the surprised and revolted look on her face, I was overcome with guilt and confusion. In that split second of shocked silence, my ego deflated right along with my cock. I'd kissed her and she didn't… want me.

Now, I am not a vain man. But being on the med school prep track in college made women available. I didn't often take advantage of that fact—I'd always thought dating and sex should lead to a relationship that became marriage and family, and friends who came round for barbeque and beers, while all our kids ran around the yard together—but I was told all too often I was attractive, and I prided myself on satisfying my bed partners. I genuinely liked women and I really liked having sex with them, and dammit, I had enough self-respect to want them to think of me fondly, even if we were only together one night.

I also knew that life on Bellissima had made me stronger, leaner, browner—and yes, my crazy hair was even crazier—but Rose had teased me on more than one occasion about my sex hair and my "hawt bod" and how the girls were going to surround me like rabid skuas when we hit port.

And I'd felt it—that unmistakable pull of attraction between us. Was I deluding myself? Bella kept touching me, pressing up against me. She climbed into my hammock, for fuck's sake. Naked!_ She was practically naked now!_

Warring with my wounded dignity was my horror that I had caved to baser instincts and tried to kiss her. Gotten aroused. Aroused my ass—_I'd been hard as steel!_ I'd never been so hard.

She was hurt, feverish, lost, and obviously young. She was innocent, seeking comfort. How could I possibly want to take advantage of her when she needed help and seemed to trust me? What sort of sick, horny fuck was I, anyway?

"Bella," I spoke urgently, trying to convey my apology in my tone, holding my hands out to my sides in a gesture of truce. "I am so sorry. I don't know what came over me. You are so beautiful and I got carried away and I misunderstood what you were doing and I was just so… and I didn't mean it—well, hell, of course I meant it, I mean look at you, you're stunning—but I would never force myself on…" and my disjointed speech petered to a halt as Bella watched me.

Her face contorted like she was going to cry and all the hours of drama, and exhaustion, and agitation welled up inside me. I snatched up my sweater lying on the chair, and flung open the cabin door, yelling, "ROSE!" right into James' pointy, smirking face.

"_Motherfucker!"_ I exploded as I shoved angrily past him, pushing him over in the narrow gangway. "What the hell was were _you_ doing there?"

"Hey, man, no harm done. I was coming to see if you needed help with the, ah… girl in there…" but his smirk betrayed him and I wheeled on him, planting my fist against his chest.

"You were listening, weren't you?" I snarled in his face, embarrassed and infuriated at being caught, just as Rosalie stepped up and put a hand on my arm. "Back off, Ted," she snapped and her tone brought me up short. I was really losing it. I mumbled something about needing air, and stumbled into the galley and up the ladder topside.

I burst into the wheelhouse, seething and panting. Dumbfounded by lust for a strange, lost girl, and infuriated by a tactless yob of whom I was equal parts jealous and superior, my brain was a disoriented lump of goo in my spinning head. I stomped past Charlie, tearing at my hair.

"Okay, son?" He asked, but I knew he wasn't expecting an answer. Still, my confusion was such that I gave him one.

"It's just…" I started, unsure of what I wanted to say. I took a steadying breath. "It's just I'm NOT a doctor! Everyone expects me to be and I'm not! _I don't want that!_ I don't know how to take care of that girl and I don't know how to get her to understand and I don't like the way he was looking at her and she made me feel… she made me feel…" My rant dwindled to an exasperated exhale.

The moment stretched, uncomfortable. Both of us stared resolutely forward, and above the drone of the engines, I could hear Charlie sucking his teeth. We were slapping through chop in the trail of the storm, and I balanced on the balls of my feet, feeling the sea under us. I took another deep breath and moved toward the cabin door, needing that air.

"It's fine, Ted," Charlie said. I turned to look at him, but his eyes were still on the horizon. I waited. I fondled the dog. "Bella," Charlie added.

I turned back toward him. "Why do you call her that?"

"It's her name," he shrugged.

I chuckled at that, "Nope, her name was definitely not that simple."

Charlie fixed me in his dark-eyed stare. He looked at me, then he looked through me. "Suits her, though, don't ya think?"

I sighed softly, letting my chest and my thighs and my dick and—most especially—my lips remember the full heated feel of her. "Yes."

Charlie's eyes flicked back to mine. His mustache twitched. "Get some air, Ted," he nodded toward the deck.

I pushed out into the chill. The sea had calmed, but we were steaming toward port at a fair clip, so I had to squint, and I still teared up in the wind. I leaned against the bulwark for balance, wishing I'd brought my slicker, but determined not to go in for it. Out here, my head was clear. I could think out here.

For weeks, I'd busted my ass, learning everything I could about trawling, reading up on research results, proving to the crew—and myself—that I could handle life on the ocean. I pulled my weight, I didn't complain, I bore the cold and the wet and the aches—I rarely barfed. I was already a scientist. I was determined to be a seaman.

But the _grace_ of these people! The shock of the storm and the shipwrecked girl was sinking in—where was my sense of humor, my stoic nerve, my patience and calm? Jasper and Rose and Emmett—even when he was swearing like a sailor, Em was solid as a rock. They didn't crack. It was like all this stuff was in their bones. Natural. Easy. Had they ever been the hot mess I was?

Even that bully, James. He was shifty, but he was unflappable. I had to admire him, wrestling the ponderous boom in the storm, while the sea raged around us, trying to turn us into a splintery snack. He had something up his sleeve besides his arm, but it was a powerful arm all the same.

I wanted this. For all my struggling, all this felt right. When I was on the ocean, under the endless sky, there was oxygen in my lungs and a lightness in my heart I'd never felt in the hospital or the lab back home.

I leaned into the fresh, filling my chest with salt air, feeling better by the minute. What did I have to feel bad about? The girl was a blip on my radar, not even a setback. We'd put into port, get her the help and attention she needed, and we'd be back to our work in forty-eight hours. Three days, max. It'd be good to have a salad. A long shower. Cell phone access. I missed my mother; it would be nice to hear her voice.

I watched the light change on the water. Sun seeped through the clouds, glinting. Shadows ebbed and reformed, darkening the swells, throwing our wake into sharp relief. Down below us, fish and more fish. Squid. Maybe a shark. At the surface, the water was like clear green-gray glass. Then for twenty feet, blue fog. Then cold inkiness and the muffled humming of whales. Deep. Nurturing. Intriguing. Endless.

I shivered—partly from imagining the dark shapes passing below me unconcerned by my musings—but being outside had helped: I recalled seeing some needleless syringes in the first aid kit. I'd crush the pills, put the powdered meds in a syringe with some of Jasper's bracing coffee, and squirt it down Bella's throat. Two or three doses like that and we'd be in Port Angeles, and she would be someone else's problem.

My fingers were pallid with cold as I turned back to the wheelhouse. My ears felt like ice cubes about to shatter off my head, but they still picked up a commotion inside as I turned the latch.

Charlie, ever steady, still manned the wheel, but Rose and Emmett were coming at me, bickering heatedly.

"Shit, Rosie, give the man some space!"

"She needs rest, Emmett! And she needs Ted!" Waving her hands at Emmett, Rose almost plowed into me, "Ah! Ted! There you are!"

I steadied her with a hand on her elbow and asked warily, "What's up, Rose?"

"Well, you know what a hosebag James can be. He's just teasing and laughing, but it's upsetting Bella…"

Justlikethat, my hard-won calm was gone. I strode to the ladder, bellowing as I went, "Bella! Dammit! BELLA!"

As I looked down, ready to descend, I saw Bella in the gangway, her eyes huge with unmistakable fright. The second she saw me, she erupted in squeals and trills, flapping her hands against the ladder, like it was a fence keeping us apart. Behind her, James' grinning mug, cajoling, "C'mon, I wouldn't hurt you. I was just having fun. You liked sitting on _his_ lap well enough!"

With a hiss, I sank to my knees and reached through the hatch, grasping Bella's flailing arms and pulling her up. As soon as I touched her, her noises increased in speed and pitch until it was almost painful to hear, but her feet found the steps and she flew into my arms. Emmett, towering over us, glowered down at James. "What is your motherfucking deal, man?" he spat. "This isn't a joke, ya know?"

James held up his hands in surrender and stepped back until he disappeared from my view. "Asshole," I muttered into Bella's hair as I rocked her. Her arms were locked around my neck, her legs had a vice grip on my hips, and she warbled gull cries and dolphin screes into my neck.

"You have the bridge," Charlie told Emmett, before pushing past me and down the ladder. James was going to regret making Charlie go below, and I couldn't help feel a bit smug about that.

Rose knelt next to me, stroking Bella's hair. Bella had stopped quaking and was now cooing, her face still firmly tucked against my neck. Her breath was warm on my skin and she felt… essential in my arms. Without thinking, like it was the most natural move in the world, I put my hands under the tight swell of her ass to shift her on my lap, relieving the pressure on my knees. She made a little chirp of what sounded like approval, and shifted even higher on my lap until her hot and _oh god_ naked girl bits were pressed against my zipper.

"Rose?" I rasped, only to flush as her eyebrows arched at the huskiness of my voice. "Please," I begged, "get her some pants?" Rose chuckled knowingly, and for once, Emmett held his tongue. As Rose stepped around me to the ladder, I muttered, "Thanks."

My shins were objecting to the hardness of the deck, so with a surprisingly graceful lunge, I stood up, Bella still wrapped around me like a limpet in a tide pool. Bracing myself against the bridge, I turned so she could see out—the rolling greens and grays of the ocean were a visual lullaby—it always calmed me. "Hey," I murmured, gently lifting her chin.

I studied her face. She was flushed from her fever and her encounter with James. Her eyes were abnormally bright, molten magnetic pools under the sweep of her lashes. I put as much reassurance into my expression as I could muster, trying with my eyes to tell her that she was safe, and that I was going to take care of her.

It must have worked because her whole face relaxed, her eyelids drooping with sudden exhaustion, her lips parting slightly. _By all that's holy, this girl is beautiful!_

I shifted again, turning Bella's face toward the view—I needed her distraction as much for me as for her; she was still welded to me _and_ _my hands were still fucking delighted to be cupping her ass_—and motioned with my head for her to look out. She flicked her eyes, understanding my motion, but immediately returned her gaze to mine. I could feel myself tumbling into those warm espresso depths, and before I lost myself to her again, I nudged her smooth cheek with my nose _inhaling that fucking exquisite essence of moist and mist and warm and salt_ to turn her face away. Which she did. Reluctantly.

Looking back, I can wonder why I was so determined to break her gaze, to free my eyes from hers. Maybe because in them, though I rejected the vision at the time, I saw my heart.

I felt it when Bella took in the sea. She stiffened against me, and my immediate reaction was _you moron, she was almost killed out there and you want to show her how pretty it is?_ But I barely registered the thought before she was squeaking and gargling and squirming. Wrestling free of my grasp and throwing herself at the glass. Scrabbling her fingers against it and quacking her crazy sounds. Looking back at me beseechingly as she pressed herself against the barrier.

If I didn't know better, I'd have thought she didn't understand why she couldn't get through. Thinking to calm her, I put my hand on her back, but I didn't expect her to shake me off. Yet she did, coughing that curious bark I'd heard her make before; her eyes were glowing with undefined need. She continued pawing at the glass. Thumping it.

"Bella?" I said quietly. She turned to me then, imploring me with her riveting eyes.

"Here. I'll take you out." I brushed my fingertips down her arm, feeling her smooth flesh like polished satin, so soft I almost couldn't register the touch. I took her hand in mine and tugged a little, urging her with me.

As I stepped to the door, Emmett passed me his quilted windbreaker. I lifted Bella's arms through the sleeves, one at time, like I'd help a child—and the jacket swallowed her up like one—and she accepted the movements, her eyes never leaving their view of the ocean. I swiveled the dog, allowing the saline cold to flood the cabin.

But if I'd expected Bella to press against me, to cling to me as I'd already come to anticipate, I couldn't have been more wrong.

With a muscular surge and a cry like a siren, she lunged at the railing. I grabbed for her without thinking, snagging the hood of Emmett's jacket. With a twist, she slipped free of it. For a split second, frozen forever in my memory, she turned her face to me, her eyes stark with longing. Then she was over the railing, falling.

I sprang forward in time to see her bend at the hips and kick her feet into a dive, her body glistening pure white before the water closed around her and she was gone.

* * *

**Author's note:** a **dog** is the handle on a watertight door. When you secure a hatch, you dog it down. I just like saying "swivel the dog."


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 8**

I stared in disbelief at the point where Bella had sliced through the waves and disappeared.

"MAN OVERBOARD!" I shouted, turning to the bulwark for a life preserver and wrenching it free. But I merely hugged it to my chest, knowing there was no one there to catch it, whispering to the sea, "Bella overboard."

Behind me, I heard a gasp and Rose rushed up, clutching a pair of her canvas pants, "Shit! Ted, what happened?"

I could only shake my head.

Rose slapped my arm, hard, before grabbing the rail and leaning out. "Dammit, Ted! Did she fall?" She turned her face to the cabin, the wind whipping her hair into her mouth as she screamed, "Emmett! Cut the engines! CUT ENGINES!"

Seeing Rose search the water's surface shocked me back into myself. I strode to starboard, scanning. But deep down I knew there was nothing to see. Deep down, I knew Bella had thrown herself in and disappeared like a scuba diver.

Rose caught up to me, her eyes on the water as well. I felt the engines drub down to an idle. I jumped at a loud thump on the glass behind me. Emmett's muffled shout came through as, "—at —appened?"

I shrugged at him and turned to go inside, Rose so close on my heels she was kicking my ankles. That could have been on purpose.

As I entered the cabin, the entire crew swarmed up from below deck, Charlie and Jasper and Peter all looking puzzled and concerned. James looked wary and… eager? But before I had time to process that anomaly, the skipper was all up in my grill: "What's happened?"

His spittle hit my face with the fury of his demand and I flinched. Stuttered.

"She… Bella… she went over."

Charlie growled at me. Emmett stepped right up beside him, "She slipped?"

Feeling intimidated as they pressed me back, I could only shake my head.

"Goddammit!" Charlie fizzed, "No one goes over on my boat!" I'd never seen him so… animated. Jasper, reading the tension even standing behind him, clapped a hand soundly on Charlie's shoulder, "Let Ted explain."

Charlie shot-gunned out a hard breath, and with a tight nod, stepped back.

I raked a hand through my hair. Looked at Emmett. "You saw her," I pleaded, "You saw her pounding on the glass."

"Yeah," Emmett answered, but he was shaking his head, obviously as baffled as I was.

To Charlie, I said, "She was—_hell I don't know!_—trying to get out. Acting like she was trapped or something.

"So I took her out."

Charlie sucked his teeth, his heavy mustache twitching in agitation. "You… took her out?"

I was in trouble.

I knew it.

I nodded.

I heard an intake of breath from behind Charlie, but I was riveted his stare.

"So you took an injured girl with a fever who'd been mostly drowned… OUT?" Charlie flared. I'd never heard him angry before. For quite possibly my first time as a grown man—I hadn't even done it during pre-med—I cowered.

With a withering glare, Charlie motioned below, "Go clean up my cabin, Ted. I don't want to see you for at least twenty minutes."

Making myself as small as possible—at my height not an easy thing—I slipped past and thudded down the ladder. As I dropped below deck, I heard Charlie instruct Emmett to make a full pass and sent James and Peter on deck to scan for any sign of the girl. I paused there long enough to hear him radio a distress call to the mainland.

I stood in the door of the cabin, my brain unable to take it all in. The pile of heavy blankets. The plastic jugs full of water. The hammock where she'd slept with me. Her torn dress hanging on a peg. That peculiar corset thing she'd been wearing.

I stepped across the cabin and picked it up. Even dry, it was heavy. Stitched into the back, up the sides, and under the lacy fabric that had cupped her breasts—her small, pretty breasts with their tight gumdrop nipples—_shit!_—I groaned in frustration and dismay at the memory—were slim stays of a barely flexible material that held the clothing's shape. I was pretty sure this was what my grandmother meant when she'd used the term "foundation garment." But I'd never seen anything like it. Through a fraying slit made by the knife Rose had used to cut it off Bella, I could see the slats, grayish-yellow against the creamy fabric. Parting the material to get a better look at what I assumed was plastic, sort of like the collar stays in my dress shirts, I saw uneven striations, and with a shock, bristles. This wasn't plastic! It was whalebone!

More properly called baleen, whalebone was keratin, like our fingernails. Found in the mouths of most whales, plates of baleen lined the upper jaw like teeth on a comb. Swimming through clouds of plankton, whales took in mouthfuls of water, and by pressing it through the baleen with their tongues, strained out tiny sea creatures. The baleen's bristly edges further helped sieve out krlll, copepods, even small fish, for the giant mammals' meals. It took tons of plankton to fuel those immense bodies.

My sister Alice had studied the history of fashion, and I had a vague recollection from helping her cram for a test—something about sixteenth century visions of the perfect womanly form and Victorians having ribs removed so their corsets could be laced up tighter.

I also knew whales could no longer be hunted for baleen or oil or meat by factory ships. Most species were endangered. How on earth had Bella come by such a garment? And why on earth would someone as young and lean as her wear something so god-awful restrictive and uncomfortable?

I fingered the delicate embroidery and ran the rough pads of my fingertips over the lace edging that had framed her flawless ass, picturing her modeling it for me in a happier place and time. How had she come to be in the sea? Why had she leapt back there? Was she out there, swimming and freezing? Drowning because of my carelessness?

"Weird, isn't it?"

_GAH!_ I almost jumped out of my skin at the voice behind me. "Fuck! Rose!" I spun to face her. She was looking at the corset I still held, her own perplexity plain on her face. She lifted her hand toward it, and I passed it over, saying, "Did you see how it's made?"

Rose nodded. She held the corset up against her stomach, looking down at it. "No lacing," she said, so quietly I had to ask her, "What?"

She looked up at me, her blue eyes distant. "No lacing," she said clearly, bringing her focus back to me. She held the corset out to me, and I took it back. My hands seemed huge holding it.

As I turned it over and over, trying to take in what Rose had said, she stepped to the bunk and picked up the corner of a blanket to start folding it. I laid the corset on the chair, moving to help.

Minutes passed and silence stretched between us as we worked, putting the cabin to right, stowing the hammock, hefting the water jugs into the gangway. We surveyed the tidied cabin together. Before stepping over the bulkhead, I leaned to snag Bella's dress and corset. I bent to pick up a couple of the jugs to take back to the galley. So softly I almost didn't hear her, Rose said, "If it took a knife to get it off, how the hell'd she get the damn thing on?"

* * *

**Author's note:** "I asked the man who showed it me/What is the name of that strange beast?/He said its name translated roughly to/He-who-easily-can-curve-himself-against-the-sky." _—Joanna Newsom_


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 9**

We churned into the docks at Port Angeles on a surprising day of blue sky and sun. Emmett vigorously cursed the sea kayakers bobbing unpredictably along the pier. The engines coughed as we throttled back and reversed.

Jasper made a spectacular leap to the dock. I, in an attempt to prove my competence, heaved the massive ropes across the six-foot gap. Peter and James rode the boom over to help Jasper snug the trawler to the bollards, raucous in their delight to be unexpectedly ashore, and free to go.

I had to wait with Charlie for the Port Authority to board and take our report. I unshipped the gangplank to the dock, and killed time by calling my mother.

"Edward?" my mother's voice was warm; she recognized my cell number and therefore knew I was in port—there was no reception out on the ocean.

"Hi Mom."

"Darling, what are you doing in port? Are you okay?"

"Yeah, Mom, I'm fine," I sighed out my lie. "We had a, um, incident. We had to come in. I'm in Washington."

"Oh. Okay." I could hear the hesitation as she battled between her concern and her not wanting to intrude. The concern won: "An incident, you say?"

"Well, yeah," I mumbled into the phone, raking my empty hand through my hair. "There was a big storm and we…" I chuckled at the ridiculousness of what I was about to say—standing in the brilliant sunshine, it seemed like a bizarre dream—"We caught a person, a girl… a woman. In the trawl."

"Oh dear." I could hear the skepticism in her voice. "I'm not sure I'm following you. You say you caught a person?"

Now, my mom was a hundred percent behind my career switch, but coming from landlocked Chicago, she wasn't down with all the boat talk. I elaborated, "There was a person in the ocean. We caught her in our net."

"On purpose?"

My mother's innocence was refreshing and exactly what I needed to ground me. I chuckled again. "We didn't know she was in the water, Mom. She must have been thrown overboard in the storm and somehow, she got tangled in our research net. At first we thought she was drowned. But I got her breathing again. She was pretty banged up."

"How extraordinary! You had to bring her back to hospital? Thank goodness for your medical training!"

"Ah yeah. Not exactly. I mean, yeah, I'm glad I knew a little bit about caring for her—she'd taken a nasty blow to the head. But we didn't bring her back to hospital," I hedged, not quite knowing how to relay what had happened. It seemed so surreal. I hadn't been able to sort out my jumble of emotions yet. More than anything, I felt bereft.

"Sooo… ," my mother drew out the word, again hesitating to press me—so very "mom" of her to sense my reluctance, even across the miles—before asking in a determined tone, "She'll be all right, then?"

I could tell Mom thought the worst, that we'd rescued someone who died on the trawler. I almost wished… well, that might have been easier. _Shit, I was so confused!_

"No. I don't know," I blew out a frustrated breath.

"Edward," my mother's voice grew firm; she knew this wasn't a social call. "Tell me what happened?"

"She went overboard, Mom," my voice broke, and I covered the sob rising in my throat with a cough, but she detected it anyway.

"Oh, darling, are you okay? Should I come to you? I can catch a flight tonight?"

"No! No, Mom. I'm okay, really. It's just all so strange," and then it flooded out of me and I couldn't seem to stem the flow—how scary and exhausting the storm was, the hurt girl, everyone expecting me to help her, how she couldn't understand us and seemed so disconnected, like she was from another time. How she clung to me, followed me. How she acted trapped in the wheelhouse and how, when I'd taken her on deck, she had flung herself in the ocean and disappeared.

As my words unwound, and my energy drained away, I sank down on one of the ropes stretched taut between Bellissima and the dock, letting it take my weight.

My mother, uber-perceptive as always when it came to me, spoke into the silence, "You said she was beautiful?"

Leave it to my mom to strike right at the heart of the matter—I would have laughed out loud, but just then Emmett hollered at me from aft, "P.A.'s here, Ted! Come aboard!"

"Mom, I gotta go. I need to make a report. I'll call again before I leave."

"Okay, dear boy. Do something nice for yourself. I love you."

"Love you, too." I pocketed my phone, automatically velcroing the flap shut before swinging back aboard.

Charlie was waiting in the wheelhouse with a uniformed officer. I could here noises below, assuming Rose was shutting down the engines and the boiler. After introductions, Charlie motioned me to sit at the navigation table, where he'd spread out a chart. Emmett was already seated there, and I pulled in next to him. The officer plunged right in with his questions. He was both thorough and implacable. What was our position when we took on the rescue? What time had we radioed port? How old was the person? What were her injuries? Where had I gotten my medical training? What language was she speaking? Why had I brought her into the wheelhouse? What had we done when she fell?

I started to interrupt, to explain that she hadn't fallen, she'd jumped, but Charlie silenced me with a glare. The P.A. looked back and forth between us, but when it was obvious we had nothing else to say, he stood and shook hands all around. He asked me if I was staying locally in case he had more questions, and I suddenly realized that, other than the boat, I had nowhere to go. My surprise must have shown on my face, because Emmett said, "Our place is small, but you're welcome to crash in the spare room."

"Thanks, Em," I said gratefully, and Emmett gave an address close to the harbor.

As Charlie and the P.A. walked to the gangplank, talking in low voices, I went below to gather up my few belongings, hoping Em and Rose had a washing machine I could use. All my clothes were salty from both the ocean and me. I jammed my watchcap over my riotous hair, and snatched up my wallet—I wasn't used to carrying it onboard, but I made sure I had it so I could spot them a meal and beer in exchange for their hospitality.

I helped Rose and Em with the last-minute shut-down routine—it seemed weird to lock up the wheelhouse—no need for that at sea—and we stowed the gangplank, before walking to the shipyard where Rose's truck was parked. I felt like the earth was rocking under my feet, a common experience among those who spend lengthy times on the water. I found myself missing it already.

I was brought up short when Rose put her key in the door of a blood red behemoth. She grinned at the surprise on my face, "Ted, meet my _real_ baby," she chuckled, swinging the door wide and patting the roof line. I stood frozen in astonishment as Emmett took my duffle, swinging it into the truck bed with their own bags, before scooting into the center of the bench seat. This vehicle was a monster!

"C'mon, motherfucker!" Emmett bawled, whacking the seat next to him. I climbed in, my grin widening as I took in the dash, with instruments rivaling Bellissima's. Rose turned the key and the beast roared to life, all of us whooping out the windows as she tore from the lot with a spatter of gravel.

As Emmett said, their house was small. I helped carry in the beer and dinner fixings we'd picked up on the way there, then Rose lit the pilot lights and Emmett threw open all the windows to let in fresh air. She showed me the washer tucked in a closet next to the bathroom and motioned me to the shower, telling me to take as long as I wanted. Grateful for the offer, but knowing they'd both be eager for a real bath, I swiftly scrubbed from top to bottom and back up again, luxuriating in the hot water with lots of soap. _Jesus, what a great feeling!_

As I toweled off, I heard Emmett groaning and cursing and Rose shushing him. I blushed to hear the distinct squeak of a bed frame, realizing what they must be doing. _For sure, there wasn't much privacy onboard._ Not wanting to inhibit their sexy times—_as if!_—I dressed quickly and stepped across the kitchen, grabbing a beer and taking it into the back yard with me. I was curious to see a homemade swing hanging from an immense big-leafed maple tree—it seemed incongruous that these hardy seafarers would have made the effort to put up a swing, and the idea made me smile. But as I sat, I understood. The swaying motion made me feel more at home, like I was still on a gently rocking boat.

I was almost finished my beer when Emmett's voice boomed out from the bathroom window, singing Led Zeppelin in the shower. Rose emerged from the house, wrapped in a short robe, the ends of her blond hair wet. She tippy-toed barefoot across the yard and snagged my beer, taking a long pull before handing it back. She studied my face, "How you doin' Ted?"

I shrugged and she leaned to hug my shoulders. "Don't think about it for a while," she advised, before stepping back to the house. She was right. I pushed all thoughts of the past few days and Bella from my mind, and chugged the last of my beer.

We had a good meal and talked about things we needed to do in port; I wanted to get in touch with the Volturas about getting the latest version of Vortex for running population models, and help Emmett pick up supplies. Keep busy. Not think about what might have happened to Bella.

But when I slept, I dreamt of her.

There was a moonlit night. There was a gently rocking sea. The sky was glowing inky blue. I could smell the moist salt air, a balm to my sad spirit.

What I had to feel sad about, I could not say, for my arms and my lap were full of girl. She was solid, yet light. And warm. So warm.

I nuzzled the top of her head, taking in her sea scent, humming with satisfaction. She murmured in return, and shifting in my grasp, looked at me.

Her eyes were luminous in the watery light, and the depth of her gaze made my thoughts stutter and my lungs sing with every breath. As I watched her eyes, darker than the darkness around us, flick back and forth between mine, her pupils dilated and she sucked in a gasp, parting her lips.

My mouth, needing something to do, burrowed through her hair to the crest of her ear, lipping the delicate shell, then gently scraping it with my teeth. Her long strong fingers gripped my shoulders. She tilted her head away from me, exposing her moonlight pale neck, where her pulse rushed beneath her satin skin.

I clamped my mouth around that essential throb, sucking lightly, then with more force as she locked her legs around me.

Softly, in a singsong, she began to chant my name. Her hips lifted in time to her chanting. I murmured into her hair, over and over, liquid nonsense syllables, sounds of the sea.

Around us, as though we were underwater, shoals of metallic fish darted and spun, suspended like marionettes played by Neptune, pulled this way and that through the shimmering water as she repeated my name. I ached for her, kissing and clasping and rubbing, my lungs tight like I couldn't breathe and she was air.

Her skin was silver and pewter and bronze, sleek and turgid under my fingertips, which were fluent in the ways to make her moan. We were simmering against each other, wet everywhere we touched, slipping on each other's smoothness. She was tide, she was moon-glints on water, she was waves running before the wind, she was everything.

As I licked and sucked my way along her wetsuit skin, her hair curled out behind her, cursive where it floated. Her feet and hands beat slowly in the open, bouncing her along my length, my stomach tightening, my balls twitching, her name on my lips, her tongue in my mouth, fierce and salted rippling water tossing silver and gray and jade promising whale song gull cry ever-whispering wind porpoises bottle noses nudging newborn calves up go up and breathe seaweed pulsing purling on the sand sharks tossing up their stranded beads of eggs mermaids' purses filling with doubloons pirate booty liquefied bursting under water volcanoes steaming pouring hot and streaming rock hard and islands rising as she filled my lap with whipping energy and liquid grace and I filled her and filled her with my own bitter boiling need.

Gushing and slippery, I couldn't hold her. I grasped with no purchase, my mouth opening with no sound save gurgles bubbling out. A muffled pounding, my heart in my ears like the swim club pool in seventh grade. Reaching. Cool green on skin. Bella drifting away backwards until her form grew dim, her hair obscuring her face, my heart pulled out to sea on the racing tide.

I awoke with a start, gulping air like I'd been holding my breath, staring at the ceiling to get my bearings. My ass was glued to the wet spot of my missing Bella. Turning my face toward the window framing the moon of my dream, a lone tear slipped down to the pillow, salted like the sea. I knew I'd be consumed by thoughts of her until I found her again.

_Oh_ _Bella: my fresh air fantasy, my ocean lust, my longing, my heart, my life._

_Where are you?_

* * *

**Author's note:** What song do you think Emmett is howling in the shower?


End file.
